The room lit up with orange light. It was quiet, and the white window curtains that were not closed fluttered in the wind.
Lin Qingqian walked to the bed and looked down. The car parked downstairs displayed no intention of driving away.
The man's deep voice echoed in her ears. "Qianqian, I'm only three years older than you. I shower no less than twice a day, and—I regret it."
Did he regret it?
Jiang Yanshen, what do you regret?
However, no matter what, you can regret it, but I won't look back.
Her porcelain-white fingers pulled the curtains open and closed them tightly.
…
The next day, Lin Qingqian went to the studio after breakfast. The paint on the ground had already been cleaned up, and even the subsequent works had ended.
